Permutation
by Cleo Calliope
Summary: 'Where My Homage is Due' - Story 2: When John Watson meets Sherlock Holmes he believes he's found the world's strangest beta. Content to stand without a pack and unwilling to deal with omegas and other alphas, a beta - even a strange one - is just the kind of flatmate he wants. He should have realized that things were never that straightforward with Sherlock. (Omegaverse Pre-slash)


_The story I just finished,_ 'Pack' _, was written as a prequel to a short story I wrote last summer in response to a challenge._

I've just finished re-editing that story and am finally posting it to this site for the first time.

 _As I said in the notes for the epilogue of_ 'Pack' _, a sequel is being considered. I have some other stuff to work on first, but keep your eyes out as a third story in this universe will probably be forthcoming in the next few months. I find the idea of NOT writing more in this this universe rather unthinkable. *g*_

* * *

 **Permutation**

The bloke in St. Bart's lab was using some kind of hormone inhibitor and a good one at that. The fact that John still couldn't tell what his permutation was even after the man had approached him to make use of John's mobile made it obvious that he had access to _very_ good suppressants indeed. That spoke of both money and connections, which fit with the man's wardrobe, accent and attitude but not with his need for a flatmate.

It was the mystery Sherlock Holmes provided that made it impossible for John to do other than show up at Baker Street the next day to see the flat. And the flat _was_ very nice as was the elderly beta landlady and the rent. Though frankly he'd had no idea what to make of the story of why Mrs. Hudson was giving Sherlock a discount on that.

Then he had been caught up on the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes and no longer had to wonder. In a few short hours, John went from a meaningless existence as a crippled veteran where nothing ever happened to a world of crime scenes, arch nemeses, pink suitcases, poison pills and sponsored serial killers. And seriously, what kind of lunatic sponsored a serial killer?

It wasn't until he had actually killed a man to protect his new flatmate and the arch nemesis had revealed himself to be said flatmate's brother that John finally had a chance to catch his breath.

He and Sherlock went for Chinese after leaving the crime scene and so it was nearly dawn when he finally managed to get back to his depressing little bedsit. Sherlock had suggested that John take the couch at 221B for the night but John had declined. He felt he needed the space to stop and think. Not that there was a great deal to think _about_ he found when he sat down to do just that. That he would move into the Baker Street flat was a forgone conclusion. He couldn't have said no for anything at that point. Since returning from Afghanistan he had been empty, without purpose or passion. The days had been bleak and the nights filled with memories.

In one day Sherlock had changed everything and John's dull, grey world had exploded into technicolour excitement. He knew he was probably out of his mind accepting a flatshare where having an illegal firearm and the ability to use it well was turning out to be a necessity. Knowing that, however, didn't seem to make a damn bit of difference.

When John had awoken the following afternoon, having slept through the morning, he found himself wondering if perhaps Mycroft had been right and John did miss the war. Was he so changed that he now _needed_ that level of intensity to be happy? Maybe. Turning the idea over and over in his head he eventually decided that he didn't care. All that really mattered was that Sherlock could give John's life meaning again. And if that was wildly co-dependent, so what? It was better than the alternative.

The mystery of how and why Sherlock was so careful about hiding his permutation was one of the few that that first wild adventure had not solved. Still, as he gave his notice for the awful little bedsit and began packing his things, John thought he'd figured it out nonetheless. There were few good reasons for a person to go to such lengths to hide what they were. The one that seemed most likely in this case was that Sherlock was a beta, the permutation most often relegated to the roles of assistants, not of leaders or innovators. Therefore it made perfect sense that Sherlock would want to hide that. It would help him to be taken seriously if his scent didn't automatically make people look behind him to find whoever was actually in charge.

It would work, John decided. He'd always felt more comfortable around betas anyway. Other alphas thought little of him due to his height and general demeanour. The inevitable fights for dominance were always annoying. The fact that he almost never lost those fights didn't make them any more enjoyable. Omegas were almost as bad, if for different reasons. They looked at him and saw an alpha who probably wasn't worth having but they could never seem to resist trying to force him into proving himself a "real alpha" nonetheless. And since John had no interest whatsoever in breeding he tended to keep his distance from omegas in any case.

A beta flatmate would be perfect.

 **~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~**

As the months went by John's initial suspicion that Sherlock was the oddest beta he'd ever met were strengthened. There was no sign of the hormonal fluxes that would indicated an omega, even one on powerful suppressants, and there was no doubt in John's mind that if Sherlock had had alpha pheromones to make use of he would have used them.

Not that Sherlock _didn't_ routinely make use of alpha pheromones. He did. Some mornings his scent as he came into the kitchen was nearly enough to drive John to his knees in a display of submission. And that was saying something as John was dominant enough never to kneel for _anyone_. On other days, though, Sherlock would emerge from his room smelling so enticing omega that it nearly made his head spin, and yet others like the blandest beta John had ever smelled. Where he got the pheromones John didn't know and didn't think he wanted to know. They weren't synthetic, of that much he was sure. No matter how good a synthetic was, prolonged contact would make it evident that it wasn't real. He'd spent entire days with the man where he would have sworn that the scent, whichever it was, was actually his.

When it came to Sherlock's own scent, however, John was fairly sure he'd never smelled it. Sherlock was meticulously clean and religious about taking whatever hormone suppressants he used. Suppressants he must keep in his bedroom as John had never come across them in their communal areas.

John had assumed that Sherlock would eventually grow comfortable enough with him that he wouldn't be quite so careful within the confines of their flat, but that never seemed to happen. Even on the days when Sherlock did nothing but mope about the flat in his dressing gown saying nothing, he was always freshly showered and entirely scent free.

Also, there was the lack of any pack.

It wasn't just the loss of his job, his place, his fucking _purpose_ that had weighted John down since returning from Afghanistan. It was also the loss of his pack.

It was an ingrained desire in everyone, but most especially in the breeding permutations, to have the security of a pack. The military was its own pack, the claim of it superseding all others for those who were enlisted. Back in London, John had maintained the tightrope walk that was being a pack of one. He was a dominant enough alpha to manage it but it still wasn't easy. The loneliness of being without pack mates to turn to, the simple knowledge that no one had his back... It was hard after years of the intensely close bonds of having packmates who were also brothers in arms.

Sherlock seemed equally without pack, although John sometimes wondered if that was what was behind some of Mycroft's actions. He'd never called pack dominance on Sherlock, though, and his scent was just as blank and uninformative as Sherlock's when he wasn't using the same kinds of high end scent masks that Sherlock so often used.

Unlike John, however, Sherlock didn't seem to feel the lack of those connections. While betas did feel the same draw to pack life, it wasn't as strong and it wasn't nearly as rare for a beta to be on their own. Like everything else about Sherlock it was unusual but in this case, at least, far from unheard of.

Another of the standing oddities of his life was that John was, in this case, prepared to follow. In the army John had, of course, learned to follow orders. He had learned to control his alpha side, to make it bow to the dominance of an officer, no matter the officer's sex or permutation. The innate acceptance of pack hierarchy all people had to one extent or another made it far easier to control the alpha side of his nature than would have been the case otherwise.

There was no such explanation here, however, and it still surprised him sometimes just how willing he was to take orders from Sherlock. Times when he would have challenged another alpha instinctively, he found himself submitting to a beta without a second thought. It was definitely odd.

On the other hand, considering what life with Sherlock Holmes was like, it wasn't the strangest part of it by a long shot. After all, who cared about who gave the orders and who obeyed when there was a human head in the refrigerator?

 **~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~**

"This is my friend, John Watson."

"Friend?" The slight smirk was more suggestive than a hundred crude innuendos.

"Colleague," John said, something about the other alpha getting on his nerves.

Sebastian Wilkes grinned as he shook John's hand, squeezing too hard in a typical display of an alpha challenge for dominance. John had been expecting it but it still annoyed him. If it wouldn't have been a serious breach of etiquette, John would have had this joker on his knees in less than a minute with the use of pheromones alone. He considered doing it anyway. Money might make Sebastian think he was in control here, but Sherlock was more dominant that he was.

"Of course," Sebastian said smoothly. "I should have guessed."

John felt his hackles rise. There were still a great many alphas who felt that they were too good for betas. That "real" alphas only ever mated with omegas. It was the first indication that Sebastian Wilkes was a right arse. It wouldn't be the last.

Still, there was something about the way that Sebastian treated Sherlock that seemed off to John. It wasn't just that he was a smarmy git who thought he was better than everyone around him. There was something particularly condescending about how he treated Sherlock. He needed this break-in investigated but somehow still managed to make it seem as though he was the one doing Sherlock a favour in hiring him to do so. As though he were somehow allowing something that he really shouldn't but was indulging the pretencions of a particularly wilful child anyway. It made no sense as Sherlock was exactly what this case needed. And while betas didn't often become leading experts on things the way Sherlock had, it wasn't unheard of either. Besides, betas often worked as police and private investigators. So having a beta investigate a break in wasn't strange in the least.

On the other hand, there was a distinct history between the two, beyond simply having gone to uni together. John just didn't know what the nature of that history was. While he didn't _think_ it was sexual, he found he wasn't actually sure.

It all left John feeling distinctly out of his depth.

As though to put a cap on the whole thing Sebastian stepped out of his office as the were leaving for the last time after informing Amanda of her unexpected good fortune. Ignoring John completely he stared at Sherlock with an expression John couldn't read, something that seemed equal parts insult, longing and frustration.

"You could have had better than this." There was something almost accusatory in his tone.

Sherlock's snort said more than any words of derision could have and swept past without a word, John following.

By the time they'd exited the bank Sherlock was already texting Dimmock about the escape of Shan and it was clear that he had no intention of explaining the comment.

John didn't press him. It wasn't as if it was important.

 **~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~**

"...not having this discussion again." Sherlock's voice was tight and angry in a way that was unusual for him. John stopped in his accent of the stairs to their flat, surprised and concerned.

"Your health..." Mycroft's voice held none of its usual acerbity.

Of course, it was Mycroft. Few people infuriated Sherlock more than his elder brother.

"Go to hell," Sherlock snapped back not allowing him to finish.

"If you do not take the proper precautions permanent damage resulting from..." Mycroft was cut off again. This time by the sound of something shattering, likely against the wall from the sound.

The angry petulance that always laced Sherlock's words when he spoke to Mycroft were gone when he spoke. His voice was low and quiet, far angrier than John had ever heard.

"Get. Out."

John was still standing, frozen to the spot when Mycroft emerged from their flat only moments later. He didn't look the least surprised to see John there but then John would have been surprised if he had. The slam of Sherlock's bedroom door seemed to reverberate through 221.

John didn't know what to say. He'd never seen cool, unflappable Mycroft looking so pale. He'd clearly pushed something too far and even he recognised it.

"Is he alright?" John asked, knowing it was a damn stupid thing to say of a man who was clearly enraged. They both knew what he was actually asking though.

John and Mycroft would never exactly be friends. They were, however, united in their mutual concern over Sherlock's well-being. Being the brother of an addict was never an easy thing. John knew it all too well as alcoholism was consuming his own sister and there was nothing he could do about it. So, he understood how Mycroft felt when it came to Sherlock, at least in part.

Sherlock may have been clean for almost four years now but that didn't make him any less an addict. And the fact that John had not known him when he was using didn't make the danger of a relapse any less real to him.

Mycroft hesitated before answering. "If it would not be inconvenient for you, I would ask that you remain in the flat this evening."

John nodded. This wasn't what they'd come to call "danger nights" or those times when a relapse seemed distinctly possible. On the other hand it wasn't a night when Mycroft felt secure having his little brother left entirely on his own either.

"And the rest?" John asked. If Sherlock was sick John wanted to know about it. It wasn't just that he was Sherlock's friend and flatmate, but more and more over the months he'd taken on the role of his doctor as well. Sherlock wasn't an easy patient. With his tendency to deduce everything about the EMTs he came into contact with it was simply often easier all around if John took care of Sherlock himself when he could.

More than that, though, he'd come to care for the impossible git. If something was seriously wrong...

However, at John's question Mycroft merely shook his head. Whatever this was, his expression said clearly that it wasn't something he was willing to discuss.

"Good day, John," he said in his usual crisp manner as he continued down the stairs.

John cleaned up the pieces of the mug he found shattered against the wall and said nothing of it or of Mycoft's visit when his flatmate finally emerged from his room hours later.

 **~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~**

 _I hope you_ _'ll be very happy together._

The words had been flung down in the heat of anger and the bitterness of disappointment. Now, John really wished he hadn't said them.

It had been obvious that Moriarty had been trying to draw Sherlock out; seduce him with his little puzzles. It just hadn't occurred to John until that insane showdown that the psychopath might have intended that seduction to be literal as well as figurative.

Forever after the smell of chlorine would bring to mind the fear of that confrontation. There was little he could do while Sherlock and Jim Moriarty had faced off at the pool where Carl Powers had died all those years ago. He did what he could, desperate to protect Sherlock, having already given himself up for dead. Moriarty's snipers had put paid to that plan and in the end all John could do was watch and pray.

He'd faced death in that immediate and imminent way once before, believing himself lost. The prayer that had been his only thought then – "please God let me live" – wasn't his prayer now. He found that he didn't beg God only for his own life, not even primarily for his own life. Not anymore.

The stay of execution was almost as frightening as the threat of imminent death.

John didn't know who that phone call had been from and that night he couldn't be arsed to care. Part of him was certain that anything that could distract Jim from his obsessive game with Sherlock was something he should be concerned about. But as he dropped into his chair less than an hour later he couldn't spare the energy to even wonder about it.

It seemed odd, surreal even, to be sitting back in Baker Street. Nothing here had changed, of course it hadn't. He'd only been gone a few hours. He had changed though. At least, he felt as though he had. He felt different somehow, like he no longer quite fit here. As though it had been another John Watson entirely who had walked out of the flat those few short – _endless, hopeless, terrifying_ – hours ago.

Sherlock paced the room frantically, muttering under his breath. With only boards and paper covering their blown-out front windows it was cold in the flat and John sat, still huddled in his coat. Sherlock, however, had cast his and his scarf off when they'd entered.

"I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play."

A sick, twisted kind of courtship, but courtship it clearly had been.

There had been something off about the pheromones in that room from the start. As soon as Sherlock entered, smelling of nothing as he so often did, there had been something... off.

As soon as John had awoken to find Jim hovering over him he'd known the man was an alpha, not nearly as dominant as John, but an alpha nonetheless. Not that natural dominance mattered much with those like Jim. Masked men, unmarked cars, syringes filled with powerful sedatives... That kind of thing pretty much negated the need for natural dominance. And that hadn't been all that had been in that syringe. John had only been out about twenty minutes or so. The suppressant that had clearly been mixed in with the sedative, however, didn't wear off that quickly. Even now, safely back in Baker Street hours later he was barely putting out any pheromones at all.

Back at the pool, John would have smelled as blank as Sherlock had. So it was Jim Moriarity's pheromones alone in the air. And they had been... strange. It wasn't until John tackled the man, determined to give Sherlock the chance to escape and got a whiff of the man's smell from directly from the source that he realised what it was.

Permutation ambiguity wasn't something one came across every day, even as a doctor. From that closer scent John honestly couldn't tell what permutation the man actually was. Though he could guess. A lot of alpha in there, too much not to be at least partially, possibly even mostly, alpha. For the rest... beta would be John's guess. Whether the ambiguity was based in a physical mixing of the permutations or if it were simply a hormonal imbalance making the man put out the wrong pheromones was impossible to judge from scent alone.

It was when he was that close that he finally understood what else was odd about the man's scent, what it was that had been growing in the air since Sherlock had arrived.

The bonding lure. A complex set of pheromones produced by an alpha preparing to bond with an omega. It was a rare enough thing to smell. The scents of interest and availability, sure. Those one smelled those all the time. The bonding lure was different. Not all alphas ever produced it at all. It indicated a deep compatibility between the alpha and omega in question and was only produced when the couple was well on their way to the physical consummation of a bond. Meaning that, by the time a couple had advanced far enough into the process for that scent to be produced at all they were rarely in public, and if they were they'd probably be in danger of being arrested for public indecency. To smell it at such a time and in such a place... it had turned John's stomach.

All of what had gone before, bombs and snipers and hostages… it had all been foreplay to Jim Moriarty. Foreplay the man had found very arousing indeed.

"When were you going to tell me that you were an omega?"

Sherlock froze in his frantic pacing, back to John and it was only then that John realised that he'd spoken the words aloud.

This was the one possibility of Sherlock's careful hiding of his permutation that John had not seriously considered. Male omegas were there rarest of the genders. Rarer even than female alphas and they weren't exactly common.

Now that he'd realised it, though... So many things seemed to crash together in John's mind. Bits of discussions, turns of phrase, even the fact that Sherlock was so careful never to leave the suppressants he was taking around the flat for John to find. It was all so clear suddenly, so many little things coming together in an unmistakable pattern. Was this what it was like for Sherlock? All the little details jumping out like neon signs pointing to the irrefutable truth?

"I didn't think it was necessary to do so," Sherlock said finally.

John couldn't repress a sigh. "We're not all as intelligent as you are."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, no. Wrong!" he said resuming his pacing. "I meant that it was unnecessary for you to know."

"Unnecessary? What where going to tell me then when you..." John stopped, a final piece of the puzzle falling into place; Mycroft's concern over Sherlock's health. What was it he'd said about permanent damage possibly resulting? He'd been going to ask what Sherlock had been intending to tell him when it was time for him to disappear for a few days for his heat. But...

John was up and out of his chair before he was aware of it, stepping in front of Sherlock who finally looked at him. The detective's eyes were too bright; the adrenaline from earlier still coursing through his system.

"When was the last time you went off your suppressants?" John demanded.

There were many omegas who used suppressants to keep themselves from going into heat every three to four months, which was the average. In fact, in this day and age most did at some point in their lives. However, it was necessary to come off of them on a fairly regular basis to allow the body ovulate and go into heat naturally. Otherwise... In extreme cases the damage to the omega's reproductive organs was so sever that it was necessary to remove the ovaries and occasionally the uterus as well. Omegectomies were nasty surgeries, particularly in male omegas, with a whole set of serious dangers both during and after the surgery and health concerns lasting for the rest of the omega's life.

John had been living with Sherlock for over six months now. Of course, it was possible that Sherlock used a twelve or eighteen month cycle for his heats but after the argument with Mycroft John didn't think so.

Sherlock's eyes flashed. "Why?" he snarled back. "Are you offering?"

John blinked, taken aback both by the sudden anger and the question. It was only a moment, however, before his own temper lit. He struggled to keep it in check. He wasn't just Sherlock's friend at this moment, he was his doctor.

"After all these months I should hope you know me a damn sight better than that," he snapped.

"You're an alpha." There was still angry defensiveness in that tone, but something of resignation as well. Which said a hell of a lot about the alphas Sherlock had known. John's mind flicked to Sebastian Wilkes.

"I'm both a doctor and your friend first." John held Sherlock's glare steadily. "How long?"

Sherlock seemed to relax but only marginally and if Sebastian has been anywhere in the vicinity at that moment, John would not have been responsible for his actions.

"A little more than three years," Sherlock said flatly after another long pause.

John sucked in a shocked breath. "Sherlock...!"

Sherlock turned away, waving back at John in a frustrated manner. "Oh save me your platitudes. You have no idea what it is like to..."

John didn't let him finish. "The hell I don't. I've been with an omega in heat before, I know how insane it is."

It was rare to see Sherlock Holmes surprised. To see it again so soon after all the events at the pool was even more strange. He half turned to look back at John, the fact that this news was unexpected clear on his face.

Omegas didn't share their heats with just anyone and for an alpha and omega to share a heat and come out of it unbonded was unusual. It was evident from his scent alone, however, that John had never been bonded.

John shrugged. "It was a while ago now, but I remember what it was like. I remember how out of control we both were. And yes, I can imagine that for you..." Sherlock looked sharply at him but John pushed onward. "I can guess that losing control like that would be awful. But the repercussions of not going through it... Sherlock you have to know how dangerous this is."

Sherlock said nothing and John searched his mind for a way through this. As he did another problem of this whole situation became evident. Who was Sherlock's Pack Leader? Recently John had begun to toy with the idea of asking Sherlock to be pack but had always shied away from it. As the beta in the equation Sherlock would have been technically in a submissive position to John and he knew Sherlock was unlikely to accept that.

An omega, on the other hand... While it wasn't common for an alpha to live outside of pack structure, but it wasn't unheard of. For omegas it was a different story. Which meant that there pretty much had to be a pack in the picture somewhere. Which meant that there was a Pack Leader to turn to in this situation. But then, why had Sherlock's pack not done something about this situation already?

"Mycroft..." John began uncertainly. Sherlock snorted having clearly already deduced what John was thinking and so John continued more confidently, "...is not your Pack Leader."

"You're threatening to call my alpha on me?" Sherlock asked, voice tinged with scorn.

"If that's what it takes to protect your health, then yes."

Sherlock seemed to soften slightly. "And if it gets out that I had to check into one of those God awful Omega Retreats?"

Okay, there he had a point. Omegas didn't usually take active, dangerous jobs. It was an inbuilt part of both alpha and beta psychology to protect omegas at all costs. It was hard enough for them to get access at times. If it was common knowledge within New Scotland Yard that it was an _omega_ they were allowing onto crime scenes…

"Between us I'm sure Mycroft and I can cover it up. We can probably even get Lestrade to…" John stopped as another light bulb flash went off in his head. So many little things falling into place; another moment when he had glimpse of what it might be like to be Sherlock.

"Lestrade!" John gasped. "He's your alpha!" He had to be. He was the only alpha Sherlock spent any time with besides John. Sherlock occasionally even listened to the man. Not often but still. And there had so often been something almost parental about the detective inspector's attitude toward Sherlock.

There were other things as well now that he came to think of it. Clues John had missed until this moment. Within days of meeting him, Lestrade had good-naturedly bullied John into meeting him for a drink down at the pub. They had become friends over the subsequent months and meeting for a drink had become something of a routine in their lives. However, it occurred to John in retrospect that the D.I. had been feeling him out on that first evening. He'd obviously been trying to figure out what kind of alpha was going to be sharing a flat with an omega under his protection. There had been no need for him to make his concerns more plain because, as a police officer, he wouldn't have had to. It would have been child's play to have a background check done on John. And John was sure, now, that that was exactly what he had done. It was what John himself would have done if he'd been in Greg's shoes. It was what any responsible Pack Leader would do.

A role of Sherlock's eyes and a twist of his mouth told John that he'd hit the nail on the head.

"Look," John said calmly. "You're my friend. You're the closest friend I have. I'm not doing this because of my permutation. As your friend and your doctor I'm worried about you. I'll talk to Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. I'll go see Mycroft. We'll sort out a way for this to be kept quiet."

Sherlock was finally crashing. John could almost see the manic energy the adrenaline had given him draining from his system. The detective sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"I... I'll think about it," Sherlock said finally.

John nodded. It likely to be the largest concession he'd get right this moment. Then another thought occurred to him.

"We should call him," John said. "Tell him what happened. At the very least we can give the yarders a description of Moriarty to be going on with." John didn't add that as Sherlock's Pack Leader Lestrade had the right to know what had happened that night. Making it a matter of the case at hand instead of pack hierarchy was far more likely to elicit agreement from Sherlock however.

The look Sherlock gave him was enough to let John know that the unsaid part was heard nonetheless. Still, he only shrugged before heading off toward his bedroom.

"Call him in the morning if you must," he tossed back at John before disappearing down the hall.

Upon moving in with Sherlock Holmes and being caught up in the hurricane that was his world, John had thought he'd found the world's strangest beta. He should have known that anything involving Sherlock could never be that straightforward.

It was funny, really, John reflected. He'd always avoided omegas because he didn't want to breed and had just as carefully avoided packs since his injury had lost him his last one. So, what had happened? He ended up with an omega flatmate who seemed to think that if anyone was going to keep his pack informed of what was happening in his life it was going to be John.

The irony of it was not lost on him.

For the first time in a long time, though, John felt something like belonging again. He didn't known the size of the pack Sherlock belonged to and he wasn't a member. Nonetheless he felt that he had a small place in it, if only because of Sherlock.

Biology was strange stuff. There was a part of John that felt a certain contentment in spite of the horrors of the night. As he went through checking the door and window locks as he did every night he felt… warmer, more satisfied with himself and these habitual actions than he had the night before. The alpha part of his nature knew he wasn't just protecting two betas in the house with him. Now he knew was ensuring the protection of a beta and an omega. It mattered. It shouldn't, as Sherlock was more than capable of protecting himself.

Rational or not, though, to the alpha inside it mattered.

 **End**


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